The Rise of Coriolanus Snow
by cat1111999
Summary: I stare at the screen, although the shapes and colors have no meaning to me. The words spoken by the person onscreen has faded into the background of the living room. It has been the same since December of the year before last. My name is Lucinda Night.


**Hi people! (if anyone does read my stories). I got this idea after reading Mockingjay. If you haven't read it yet, that's ok (even though you should), I don't think there's spoilers or anything. This story is mostly from Snow's POV. **

**The Hunger Games and its characters belong to the amazing Suzanne Collins. R&R!**

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Green and abundant in wildlife, the woods outside my window have always been an adventure to me. One that I will never have. My sister, Marilyn, tells me that there are many dangers outside the city borders; beasts untamed and ferocious, bitter and cold storms that are outside the climate management's sphere of control. Nowadays, a storm would be a blessing. Climate management can't coax a single cloud from the sky. The days are scorching and dry, withering all the greenery in our sad little community. It hasn't rained in so long. So long, that my mother would keep watch by the window if and whisper excitedly if she saw an impressive group of clouds.

"This could be it!" She squeals like a little girl. She's not even too worried about dying of thirst, either, it's just all the plants and flowers she's been fretting over. I would smile, maybe, back then, but it got harder to be as optimistic. She's not like that anymore, though. She's nearly dead. She hasn't left her bedroom in what seems like years. But it's five months. I can't believe it. Eccentric, sunny, always moving, sometimes singing, forever in the same worn apron, wielding the emerald green watering can the color of her eyes and zipping around to her precious flowers. My old mother. A spirit like the fiercest tornado and the gentlest butterfly.

Without something to do, her mind often wanders to the past. There are so many stories to tell, so many that she would not sit down to share until now. Sometimes, she gets carried away. Laughing, but in a breathless, raspy way. Sometimes, on the clear, beautiful nights, she tells stories she claims are all true, from stories of legendary battles to tragedies to love stories that leave me snoring but are Marilyn's favorite. Then, there are those of herself, which she recounts with a faraway, wistful look. Stories of her and her friends' adventures, of her in the woods, of her with my father.

Clementius Snow.

Who was barely time to visit. And certainly no time to write or call or email. A politician, a peacemaker, a man caught in the boiling battles of a troubled nation. He is on the news frequently, speaking and arguing but never fighting, watching the people around him, encouraging them, helping them. As he's suddenly the hero of the world, I imagine he's got more important things to do than think about his home. It is just another place for his work. His everlasting, draining work that would send him to his office late at night with a cold coffee clutched in one hand and his laptop in the other. My father, who never cared for the sunlight and nature my mother talks about endlessly. No, he cares for the people living in this world. His family is important to him, he says to the reporters. They keep in touch, he tells the world. All lies. It's curious, then, because he is such a morally good person, fighting for the defenseless. And he would be home now, today, if he could, with his warm eyes twinkling and arms outstretched as he says to me, "Look how much you've grown!"

Honestly speaking, I resent him even more for the undeniably good reasons he leaves. Marilyn says we should be proud of our father, the fearless patriot gone to fight for a good cause.

"He's our brave war general." She tells me with her clear blue eyes and earnest expression.

"No, he's more like a talker than a fighter."

I don't tell her that I've lost all interest in the green army figurines I used to play with. Fighters I controlled. Placing them strategically, calculating factors, launching my perfect battle plan and celebrating the victory I knew was going to happen on the battleground that was my desk. What a joke. Sure, it was fun, until I started seeing the same things on TV. When my eleven-year-old self connected the weapon in the soldier's hand to the blood splattering onto the ground. And I learned the truth. And I was horrified as I then recalled the stories in my history textbook, and now still as my mother's words weave a tangled tragedy from her own memory, and later still, when I would cause it myself. But I wouldn't any of that yet.

Marilyn grins. "Is he like a patriot, then?"

Yes. A patriot. Loyal to his country above everything, above everyone.

"Yeah. Exactly. You know, I bet he's even better than George Washington!" I tell her. She giggles. George Washington is somewhat of a joke now. A made-up tale for the littles wanting the miracles and good endings that are scarce in the real world. Stories where the good guy wins.

I still remember the day that I opened my lunchbox in the corner of the library (hiding from Jack, who had eaten half a dozen lollipops and was as hyper as a squirrel on caffeine) and a butterfly flew out. A yellow swallowtail with a torn wing. I watched, mesmerized, as it glided and plunged, struggling to balance out its flight while making for the thin stream of light coming from the back window. I watched it as nearly clipped its wing on a computer monitor. I watched as it plummeted outside, thrown by the breeze, across the recess yard and disappeared, eventually, as an insignificant speck on the blacktop. I closed the shades. I simply went hungry that day, and I told no one, although from that time on I packed my own lunches. But I ate lunch in the library from then on, because in the peaceful, calm atmosphere I found shelves and shelves of books. Happy and sad endings. I took them home to read, and, surprisingly, found that I likes the sad endings better, even though I couldn't find anything wrong with happy ones. They're just too perfect, that's all. They won't happen to any of us.

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The days drag on. Reality seems to have broken free of time, and through the slowest week of my life comes an explosion of national events. Unexpected storms. Natural disasters. Talks of the uncontrollable tension boiling the streets of Washington, D.C., the barely contained malevolence of the people. Unrest. Protest. Maybe an uprising.

But it's all too far away for me to comprehend. I still live on Northhill Street. I still wake up early on Sundays mornings to watch the sunrise, and read bedtime stories to Marilyn when she can't sleep. It is all the same. Except the lack of water. I wake up each morning, stumble into the bathroom and turn the faucet on and off, over and over, until it dawns on me that I'm wasting my time. I reach for a bottle of water from the counter behind the abundance of breakfast cereals and come up empty-handed. We look in the supermarkets, the convenience stores, even the creek running through the field by our house. Bone dry. From time to time, the stores have some milk and liquor available at astronomical prices, but the shelves are only stocked for a day or two before they are robbed of drinks in any form or size.

Anxiously waiting for something makes the time longer. Well, of course it does. But the catch is, you don't know if it will ever come. You are a little child, waiting eagerly for a gold sticker and lollipop in the crowd of impatient kindergarteners. Your hope fades slightly as others receive theirs before you, their faces bright with relief and happiness. But you wait anyway, for hope that it will come. What if it doesn't come? And the water might not come, either. The better nation millions call for may never exist; we may not live to see it, anyway. And the father may not ever come home to the child with the hope. That child is not me. It is Marilyn. She is my rescuer from myself. If she tries hard enough, she can almost convince me that my dark chasm of fear and worries can be crossed easily on a bridge of hope and miracles. I almost believe her, until I remind myself that miracles are one-in-a-million, impossible, and not made for people like us. And Marilyn is a miracle in herself, the one thing that hasn't totally abandoned me. Sure, we fight like all siblings. But I feel that I'm always the offender, the less wise or experienced, the one with the temper, while Marilyn is the reasonable, grown-up that is always doing what they think is best. I think she gets that from my father, but it is somehow her own, too, something that she has acquired, probably, from being around me for too long. Her bedtime stories are the one thing that she still holds on to from her old childhood, the ones with fairytale endings and honest, perfect characters. If that's where she gets her light and wisdom, the whole world should learn to read them again.

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My throat is parched. Swallowing is like a legion of sandpaper warriors trying to choke me, like a vise around my throat that keeps me from eating or speaking properly. Despite my nagging everyone to drink as much as we can afford to lose in one day, we seem to have developed a strange cough that's everpresent in our voices, making them cracked and rough, like a surface of broken, scratched glass.

Meals are the worst. Don't get me wrong, I admit I like cooking more than most guys, and Marilyn has a real knack for it, but it's one of our daily activities that include our mother. She doesn't cook or anything (imagine that…I can picture our kitchen burning down already), but we still have to eat with her in her stuffy, crowded room down the hall. For some reason, I think of the room down the hall as the farthest place from earth imaginable now. It's hard to believe it used to be mine.

Our mother is disintegrating. Her skin is a pale, sickly color, and her eyes are dull, like she's never seen the sun. Her rare laugh sends shivers up my spine. Her voice is even worse than ours, though she claims she's drinking tons of water. I can't help notice that the few plants in her room, the few that have survived, look surprisingly healthy for plants that have supposedly gone without water for a whole month. I share this with Marilyn, and suggest removing the plants, but as soon as our mother hears she throws a fit, saying that we are so ignorant and she can't believe I'd say something like that, as thickheaded as I am. Her eyes flash and I glimpse what she used to be like when she was angry in the green depths. I apologize hastily and make for the door before I can say anything stupid. I stomp downstairs. Marilyn is still talking. When I seat myself in the vacant living room, I hear voices being raised from upstairs. I switch the TV on. A few minutes later, Marilyn marches in, arms crossed and fuming. But after an episode of SpongeBob, she's all smiles and laughs. I am preparing for an argument on what we should watch next, when a news update catches my eye. It reads "Missing Government worker, supposedly disappeared from office late Tuesday night." On the screen is someone I know very well. Someone I'd assumed was too far away. Out of my life. Someone I miss more than anything. My father.

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**So what did you think? Constructive criticism welcomed! Please Review! I can't promise a quick update because of schoolwork :( Thanks for reading! **


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